


Mind & Hand

by spqr



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Tony Stark, Multi, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 11:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16680475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spqr/pseuds/spqr
Summary: When Tony lays down to sleep at night, he imagines someone’s arms around him.Most of the time he doesn’t let himself acknowledge that “someone" has a name, has a face. Even though he’s all alone in his apartment, it’s too embarrassing to curl up on his side, hug the pillow, and admit that he’s so goddamn pathetic he can’t fall asleep without the comforting idea of blue eyes and rumpled t-shirts and broad shoulders caging him in.[or: college!!!]





	Mind & Hand

 

Technically, Tony meets Steve for the first time twice. 

 

The _first_ first time he’s on a bender. It’s his eighteenth birthday, which means absolutely nothing except that he can start telling girls he sleeps with his real age. Honestly, Tony doesn’t remember much--he starts the weekend in Boston and ends it in Brooklyn, wakes up in a spare room being watched over by some guy called Sam Wilson who really has no bedside manner to speak of and makes Tony drink half a bottle of Gatorade to, quote, _flush the shit out of your system_ , before he lets him get up to go piss. The room turns out to be in a third-floor walk-up that belongs to the Barnes family, which means nothing to Tony when Sam tells him. Well, what it means is--Tony eats a hearty breakfast of Belgian waffles to a symphony of well-meaning tutting from Mrs. Barnes and screaming from the pre-teen Barnes sisters, reciting _yes, ma’am_ and _thank you, ma’am_ while Sam kicks him under the table. 

 

(On the train home, he finds out the rest of the story from a combination of Sam and social media. Apparently he ran into Steve in a bar on campus, challenged him to a tequila shot contest, found a kindred spirit in Steve’s unbeatable metabolism, challenged him to sex in the bathroom, found out Steve was, quote, _happily involved,_ challenged him to a foot race, somehow ended up in a fistfight where they both got the shit kicked out of them, staggered home to Steve’s house, got patched up by Steve’s boyfriend Bucky, snuck out the bathroom window and somehow found themselves in New York. Steve steered them to Bucky’s folks’ place, but by that time he was late for an interview about some sort of art fellowship back in Boston, and Sam happened to be on the way through from D.C, so it was Sam’s, quote, _lucky fucking day, not like I’ve got shit to do or anything._ )

 

The _second_ first time he meets Steve, he’s sober. It’s a week or so after the whole _incident_ , and the only glimpse Tony’s had of any of them is a close call in the quad, where he hid behind a tree so Sam wouldn’t see him. It’s the halfway point of the term--time for a few new classes--and Tony, who’s neglected each and every one of the humanities since he was a fourteen-year-old freshman, waltzes into Reconstruction Era American History twenty minutes late with a triple-shot red eye. 

 

The guy at the front of the lecture hall--big, blond, _beautiful_ \--is just finishing up his intro, reminding everyone, “Again, I’m your TA. My name is Steve, my office hours are Tuesday from three to six, and I am here to _help_ you, really help you, not just politely turn down your last-minute requests to bump your grade for no actual reason.” Tony tries to slip into a seat under cover of the rest of the students’ halfhearted laughter, but Steve must have eagle eyes or something, because he looks up and says, “Tony?” 

 

Tony may or may not make a run for it. Steve may or may not dismiss the class three hours early to go after him. 

 

888

 

Howard disowns Tony the day before the car accident. It’s fortunate, because he hasn’t had time to cut Tony out of the will. It’s unfortunate, because Tony’s last words to his father are _fuck you too, dad_ , and the ones to his mother aren’t much better. Obie tries to tell him that they know he didn’t mean it, that they’re watching over him, but not even Obie’s a smooth enough talker to convince Tony the afterlife is anything but...nothing. 

 

888

 

The house is number 3219. It has three floors. 

 

The first floor is a kitchen and a living room. There’s technically a basement, but there are so many mice down there the house collectively decided to move the washer and drier into the living room and seal the basement door with duct tape. There’s a tiny back yard that’s just concrete and a tomato garden that’s been abandoned but sometimes blooms of its own divine volition in the dead of winter. There’s a porch with four lawn chairs bike-locked to the railing, a sign that says _beware of dog_ even though there is no dog, and two front doors. 

 

The second floor is Natasha and Sam. Three bedrooms, two occupied and one spare, and the only bathroom with a shower. Natasha rules the shower schedule with an iron fist and makes the boys take cleaning duty on rotation. No one’s willing to fight her on it--just like no one’s willing to fight the fact that she got the only room with a ceiling fan. There’s a sword mounted on the wall in there, and it’s just not worth the risk.

 

The third floor--a converted attic space--is Steve and Bucky. Tony finds out through third parties that neither of them really wanted the room with the weird, circular bed in it, but Nat and Sam made them take it because it was high up enough that if they ensconced themselves on the porch they couldn’t hear Steve and Bucky fucking. Tony’s glad for their foresight. Sometimes Monopoly gets so heated that they have to excuse themselves to go work it out in private, and Tony’s glad he doesn’t have to hear that. Sam’s already got enough blackmail material on him--Tony doesn’t need to throw in an added awkward boner for no extra charge. 

 

It’s not a nice house, but it’s a good house. It’s well-loved, well-lived-in. 

 

An American flag and a Russian flag stare each other down from opposite walls of the living room. A rack of Mets caps hangs in the entryway, a pile of sneakers will trip you inside the door if you’re not careful. The internet is wired; Tony spent a whole weekend trying to turn everything wireless, but it created so much chaos that they just went back to the intricate web of ethernet cables winding up and down the staircase. The couch is a hand-me-down from Sam’s grandmother, the coffee table is a priceless antique Natasha got for $10 haggling at an open-air flea market, and Tony can stagger up to the third floor blind drunk in pitch darkness. 

 

3219 is more _home_ than anywhere Tony’s ever lived. But it’s not his. 

 

888

 

“I’m not building weapons,” Tony tells Howard. 

 

He’s not sure what got into him. It’s absolutely suicidal, poking the bear like this, but he keeps going. “I’m not gonna do what I do to make money, dad. I want to help people--actually _help people_.”

 

It’s Christmas. Usually Tony would’ve gone home with Rhodey, but Rhodey just graduated and he’s not home for Christmas, he’s overseas at some Air Force base in some terror-ridden - _stan_. It’s been so long since Tony was home for the holidays, he’s almost managed to convince himself that his memories of cold, empty rooms and tense dinners at huge polished tables are false. He’s almost managed to convince himself that it will be different this time; that his mother will ask him about his friends and his father will sit down to watch a Christmas movie, that they’ll reminisce about the better moments of Tony’s childhood and be _merry._  

 

Instead, Maria looks uncomfortable. Howard holds himself still for a long, long minute. Then he puts his fork down, finishes his scotch in one gulp, and says, “Get out.”

 

888

 

When Tony lays down to sleep at night, he imagines someone’s arms around him. Most of the time he doesn’t let himself acknowledge that _someone_ has a name, has a face. It’s too--even though he’s all alone in his apartment, it’s too embarrassing to curl up on his side and hug the pillow and admit to himself that he’s so goddamn pathetic he can’t fall asleep without the comforting idea of blue eyes and close, warm beer breath, rumpled t-shirts and broad shoulders caging him in. 

 

888

 

Most people think Steve’s the responsible one. But he’s not--it’s Bucky. 

 

Steve never wraps his hands right and always comes home from the boxing gym with split knuckles. Steve goes on benders with complete strangers. Steve punches purse snatchers on the subway. Steve gets in spirited arguments with Sox fans and yells _FUCK THE PATS!_ out the window if he’s had a few too many. Steve plays it fast and loose with monthly thesis deadlines and faster and looser with things like professional courtesy and basic respect when it comes to stuffy old professors whose historical opinions he doesn’t care for. 

 

 _Bucky_ , on the other hand...Well, to start--technically, Tony meets Bucky for the first time twice, too. _First_ first when he and Steve make their pit stop at 3219 for band-aids and advil, and _second_ first when Steve carts Tony home for “family dinner” and Bucky introduces himself by asking, “You gonna eat two bowls of pasta, or three?” 

 

(One bowl of pasta is not an option. Tony can tell from Bucky’s murderous eyes and the way he weilds the tomato sauce spoon like a weapon--it’s either two or three.) 

 

Bucky cooks. When he’s not listening, they call him _the mom friend._ He patches Steve’s split knuckles and gets in his chevy pickup to retrieve Nat from failed dates. He yanks Steve inside by the scruff when it looks like the Pats fan next door is getting bright ideas about a loose brick, peppers the house with sticky-notes to remind Steve of his due dates, gives Sam rides to the train station when he has to go home to see his grandmother. House legend has it that Bucky even sewed a quilt once, though if it’s true he keeps it somewhere not even Nat can find it. He gives his boyfriend fond, quiet looks when Steve’s getting riled up over a dumb idea, and says _why don’t you sleep on it._ He carries an extra pair of sunglasses when he knows Steve’s gonna be hung over, goes to all Nat’s judo matches with snacks in a shoulder-bag cooler. His eyes do _gentle_ just as well as they do _murderous,_ he’s got a little extra around the waist, and he always has an extra sweatshirt in his truck. 

 

It’s not that Bucky won’t throw a punch if he has to. In fact, there’s video evidence of him whacking some guy named Batroc with a lunch tray back when he and Steve were in high school. But, Bucky told Tony when it came up, the only reason he did it because Batroc was talking shit to Steve. The whole thing went down in French, and Bucky doesn’t speak French, but he’s got a weird sixth sense when it comes to people threatening his friends.

 

Bucky takes care of his own. Somehow, amazingly--that includes Tony.

 

888

 

With Steve, Tony figures it’s pretty much love at first sight. His guess is as good as any whether first means _first_ first or _second_ first, but both work. With Bucky, it takes longer--Tony sinks into it, like he got the end of his shoelace stuck in quicksand one morning and didn’t realize it until it was too late, until he couldn’t tell whose arms he was imagining  at night, until he reached out and found himself pretending the unreachable edges of his mattress were round, until he tried to take a step forward and realized the sand had his whole goddamn leg.

 

888

 

“You guys probably shouldn’t be down here,” Tony says, but he takes the flask from Bucky anyway. 

 

Steve tries to pass Tony the joint at the same time, so Bucky reaches over him to take it. The three of them are sitting on the floor of Tony’s graduate lab, backs against the glass wall that separates his space and Bruce’s next door. “I mean--all this stuff is like, super unstable,” Tony continues, slurring a little. “That’s why they put me under eight levels of empty storage space and a metric shit ton of concrete.” 

 

“Eh,” Steve says. “Least it would be a cool way to go.”

 

“It’s your fault.” Bucky takes a long drag, coughs a little, and breathes out a cloud of smoke around their heads. “You wouldn’t come up, so we had to come down. Can’t let you spend your birthday alone, Tones.”

 

“Wow. Thank you. Really, this is--this is one hell of a party, guys.” Steve snorts, clearly remembering last year. Tony envies him--wishes he could remember every second of his first night with Steve, the first moment he bumped into him, the first time he saw the way alcohol turns Steve’s cheeks bright red, the first time Steve flashed him that sheepish downturned smile. “The big one-nine, I’ll never forget this one--“

 

“Tony,” Steve says. “If you wanted a big party you would’ve thrown yourself one. You were gonna spend the whole night hidden away down here by yourself. You’re not fooling us.”

 

Bucky makes a noise of agreement and sticks the joint between Tony’s lips. His knuckles brush the edge of Tony’s mouth, just barely, and Tony ignores the way it makes his heart rabbit up into his throat. He takes a drag, takes a swig, winces at the shitty tequila, and passes everything to Steve. “I’ve got a lot of work to do. Thesis review in the morning, then Obie’s coming up for our monthly SI meeting.”

 

“You’ve been working for like twenty hours,” Bucky says. “Come on, you can take a load off for a while. Come back to the house, do a kegstand, sleep it off--you’ll be bright eyed and bushy tailed by eight a.m.”

 

“Maybe nine a.m.” Steve amends. “Still plenty of time to get to your review.”

 

Tony weighs his options. Another night on the cot in the corner, or a night on the couch in 3219. Quality time with dangerous nuclear engineering equipment, or quality time with a keg. A paper party hat on DUM-E, or paper party hats on two of the very few people he’s ever really wanted to spend his birthday with. When it comes down to it, Tony is a weak, weak-willed man. The decision practically makes itself.

 

He wakes up at eight a.m, but not on the couch--hanging half-off the rounded edge of Steve and Bucky’s bed in the attic of 3219, one foot on the floor, face smushed into a memory foam pillow. He gets a lot of ideas really fast, but then he notices Steve and Bucky--far on the other side of the mattress, wrapped around each other. 

 

Something in Tony’s chest twinges. He pulls himself to his feet, trudges to the bathroom, finds a dick drawn on his cheek. Wets his fingers, rubs it off, and sends a silent _thank you_ to whoever swapped Nat’s sharpie out for magic marker. Probably Bucky. Even that thought sends another jolt of longing through him, and--

 

“Fuck,” Tony tells his reflection. It’s not a pretty reflection, this morning. “Get yourself together, man.”

 

888

 

The thing is, Tony’s not gay. 

 

It’s not that he’s homophobic, or having gay panic, or any of that. Tony’s got bigger things to panic about. It’s just...he’s never thought about a guy that way, let alone _two_ guys. He likes soft curves and small tits and the way girls laugh when he runs his lips up their inner thigh. He likes the taste of them, cherry lip balm and pussy, likes to be buried deep inside them and feel their legs around his waist like a vice, likes the way their long hair brushes against the side of his face when they lean over him to kiss him, falling like a curtain. He likes waking up with half-moon nail marks in his shoulders, with lipstick on his jaw, a pair of panties on his bedroom floor.

 

He’s never thought about a guy that way. But... _Steve and Bucky._

 

888

 

Tony supposes he’s grateful that Obie took over the company. Obie’s a little more understanding than Howard ever was, a little more willing to listen to what Tony has to say. Tony figures that’s partly the businessman in him and partly the fact that when Tony turns twenty-one he’s going to be a majority shareholder. Whatever it is, Tony’s going to enjoy it while it lasts. The company’s getting by on Howard’s old designs and what few innovations the hacks down in R&D can spit out--legacy and good will won’t last forever, but it’ll last long enough. Obie doesn’t pressure Tony to work on weapons designs; every once and a while he’ll get Tony to consult on the design for the next Stark Pad or streamline the math on a new supersonic jet, but that’s it. Tony doesn’t always like him, but he trusts him a hell of a lot more than he ever trusted his father. They work well together.

 

Still, Tony doesn’t let Obie into his lab. It’s a habit he picked up from his father--no one who might understand what they’re looking at is allowed in. (Tony has a few exceptions. Bruce. Rhodey. But he trusts them _and_ he likes them.) So whenever he and Obie have their monthly SI meeting, they do it in a pizza place. Off the grid, hole-in-the-wall places, where they won’t be seen. Obie takes off his jacket and rolls up his shirtsleeves, Tony talks idly about his classes, and they both put down a whole pie. This time, Obie’s bearing good news--Tony’s Maria Stark Foundation is set to get up and running in the next couple weeks, starting with a gala to benefit small New York clinics. (Tony remembered Mrs. Barnes talking about her clinic being underfunded. He can help--so he will.) Maybe it’s the good news that makes Tony dumb, or maybe it’s the fact that he’s still laughing from the pizza sauce Obie has in his beard, or maybe it’s just that he’s nineteen, he’s young and dumb and _dumb_. 

 

He tells Obie about the arc reactor. 

 

888

 

“Ghostbusters,” Sam announces. “That’s what we got--four really old Ghostbusters costumes from the nice granny next door. I will _not_ be Zeddemore. Nat, sorry, but you’re on your own.”

 

Nat raises a single, judgemental eyebrow. Tony’s glad that for once it’s not aimed at him. “I’m not an idiot who waited until an hour before the party to find a costume,” she says. “So that’s fine.” 

 

 _“Ouch_ ,” Steve says. “That was cold.” Natasha tosses him a wink on her way up the stairs. Steve grins, and Tony feels his lips twitch slightly just at the sight of Steve grinning, which is awful. He needs to get a handle on that, and also on the part of his stomach that’s aflutter at the fact that he’s going to be part of a group costume. It’s embarrassing, but he’s never been part of a group _anything_. 

 

“It was cold at you, too, punk.” Bucky ruffles Steve’s hair as he gets up. “I’ll be Zeddemore.” He snags the costume from Sam on his way past. “Somebody else can dish out jello shots.”

 

Natasha ends up divvying up their pre-game jello shots, resplendent in her Sexy Ninja costume. Tony does three, goes and puts on his Egon costume, and does three more. They’re on their way to the Cognitive Sciences Halloween party, because Sam and Bucky are both in the department, and with two they outnumber the rest of them--Tony alone in Mech-E, Steve alone in History, and Nat alone in Mathematics. If Tony remembers correctly, CogSci really knows how to throw a rager, so he’s got a whole strip of condoms in his boot and a mission to get laid so thoroughly he forgets the shape of Steve’s hands and the way he wants to put his mouth on the hinge of Bucky’s knee. Probably hopeless, but worth a shot.

 

CogSci does _indeed_ know how to throw a rager. The truly uninhibited party is a rare bird at MIT, land of the nerds, so Tony knows to take advantage of one when he finds it. He hangs around the other three Ghostbusters for the first hour or so, but then Sam gets dragged off by a girl in full medieval armor who says her name is Val and Nat’s got Bruce wrapped up in a shadowy corner and Steve and Bucky are making eyes at each other, so Tony takes the opportunity to slip into the crowd. He ditches the bulky backpack in an upstairs hallway (sorry, granny) and surrenders himself to the mosh. Music pounds. Tits press against his back, he runs his hands over supple hips, a girl in a werewolf mask rips his collar open and licks his adam’s apple--

 

A man’s hands settle on his waist. Tony freezes up for a second, starts to turn around to tell the guy he doesn’t swing that way, but then he remembers the particular nature of his mission. 

 

This might be _just the thing_ to get a certain Venkman and Zeddemore out of his head. 

 

Tony leans into it, grinds his ass back against the guy’s crotch, feels a sticky exhalation of breath on his neck and--thrillingly--the hard line of a cock through the guy’s pants. _Oh, boy._ He leans his head back to yell in the guy’s ear that he’s going to need a few more drinks if they’re going to do this, but then the guy grabs his dick through the dumb Ghostbusters jumpsuit and Tony chokes on his own tongue, amends-- _actually, I’m good to go._  

 

Not a lot goes right after that. 

 

Tony catches Steve’s eyes on the way upstairs--wide and blue, shocked--and then he can’t get them out of his head for the rest of the night. They’re both too drunk--Tony and the guy, Loki--to make it good. Loki insists on topping and Tony says _what the hell, first time for everything_ , and Loki preps him too fast, too rough, and it burns at first but eventually it doesn’t. Eventually he likes it. Eventually he comes, harder than he ever has, on some random guy’s dick, thinking of them. It’s awful.

 

888

 

Tony has a rule. He’s allowed to cry, but only when his face is already wet. When no one--not even him--can really notice the difference. Everything has to stay bottled up during the day, but when he gets home he can turn the shower on and let steam fill the bathroom and just _let it out_. No one’s ever there to tell him that, of course--to say _let it out, Tones_. No one ever has been. But it’s okay. He sits down under the spray and hugs his knees and lets it all out, until there’s nothing left but a thousand-yard stare. Then he gets up, turns the water off and scrubs the tears dry with all the rest of it, like they never even fell.

 

888

 

Normally, real estate was Maria’s prerogative, but Tony chose his apartment himself.

 

His mother was appalled. It was a quarter the size of their next smallest property, but she’d already agreed to let him have that bit of freedom, so there was nothing for it. As a Stark, there was absolutely no way he was ever going to be allowed to live in the dorms--for all that his father wouldn’t shut up about his Vietnam days, he really didn’t like the idea of communal living. Happy helped Tony move in, just a few boxes of stuff he really didn’t want to leave to his mother’s mercy. The place was furnished, but Tony built in a few ramps and charging stations for DUM-E and Butterfingers, turned one of the extra rooms into a spare lab, hid a big safe in the back wall. That’s where he keeps the arc reactor prototype, now--behind two layers of drywall and three layers of keypad encryption. It’s safer there than in his lab, where anyone with an MIT security badge can waltz right in. It’s stressful when he has to carry it between the apartment and the lab, just a messenger bag between it and the world, but--oh, well.

 

(Tony loves his apartment. It’s not _home_ , not exactly, but it’s _his space_. He pays the bills, vacuums the floors, opens the door when new neighbors come to introduce themselves with cookies and smiles. He hung the AC/DC poster on the wall, bought the knit blanket with the nuts and bolts pattern, re-painted the dark water-damaged spot in the corner of the ceiling in his bedroom. Tony controls every aspect of this place, every inch of it. He can predict events, here. He’s safe here. He’s alone here, but most of the time it’s not as bad as being _not alone_ someplace else.)

 

888

 

“I had an idea,” Bucky says. “Steve’s gonna try and take credit for it, but don’t listen to him.”

 

It’s morning, for some reason. Tony thinks it really ought to be night still, if the pounding headache and bone-deep exhaustion are any indication, but it’s morning. He’s holding onto a cup of Irish coffee for dear life, huddled in one of the lawn chairs on 3219’s front porch. Bucky, the complete asshole, isn’t even wearing sunglasses--he’s free-wheeling his coffee cup one-handed, hair loose and unkempt, all natural in a long-sleeve CogSci t-shirt and a pair of ratty joggers that really shouldn’t be doing anything for him. 

 

But the world is unfair, and it’s morning, so Tony wants to press up against the front of him and wrap his arms around him and sink into him until they’re one person. That would be Tony’s first indicator that the thing with Loki didn’t work, except there’s already the way he came hissing the _s_ in _Steve_ last night.

 

“That was an ominous introduction,” Tony says, with a sip for fortification. “But sure, go ahead. Shoot.”

 

“Me and Steve noticed you were...experimenting last night. It can be tricky findin’ guys who’re gonna treat you right. So I thought, if that’s gonna be a thing you’re doing, maybe you’d wanna do it with us.”

 

For a second all Tony can do is admire the use of the word _experimenting_. It’s right on the nose--and his hypothesis crashed and burned mightily. But then what Bucky just said catches up with him, and he chokes on his coffee a little, because _what_. “What?” he says. “Is...Is Steve on board with this?”

 

Tony likes to think that it’s only because he’s known Bucky a year that Bucky can read the _yes_ in his expression. But it’s probably just part of who Bucky is--mom friend, keeper of idiots, bullshit detector. “Stevie’s on board,” he answers calmly. “A hundred percent. You wanna go wake him with me?”

 

And again--Tony is a weak, weak-willed man. He’s never been capable of passing up the things he wants, even when he knows they’re going to hurt him in the end. So he says, “Yeah. I--okay.”

 

Upstairs, he lingers in the door. His headache throbs and his stomach turns a little with every breath he takes, he’s raw and sore in a place he’s never been raw or sore before, and he was just outside in his undershirt and boxers but it’s only now that he feels the chill in his skin, the biting cold of the first of November. He feels small. He feels naked. He doesn’t know what to do with his body, while he stands there and watches Bucky kneel on the bed, find Steve’s shoulder under the blankets, shake him gently, murmur, “Stevie.”

 

“Geroff, Buck,” Steve mumbles, half-awake. Tony’s never seen him like this, thick and slow with sleep, little more than a bloom of messy blond hair above a tangle of sheets. White morning light filters through dust on the high attic window, whispers over the edges of Steve and Bucky’s shared life, two desks crammed in under the slanted wall, a hamper full of both their clothes, boxing gloves hung from a peg on the wall, happy polaroids. Tony looks at the one closest to him--high school graduation--and suddenly feels like an intruder.

 

Bucky shakes Steve again, harder. Steve actually emerges from under the covers to glare at him, but then he catches sight of Tony in the doorway and the air goes out of him. “Oh,” he says. “Tony. Did you say yes?”

 

Tony nods.

 

Grogginess apparently gone, Steve’s up and out of the bed before Tony can blink. Then it’s just two steps across the room, and he takes Tony’s head in his hands and kisses him. 

 

He’s shirtless and sleep-warm, big and earnest and insistent, and even with the morning breath, Tony can’t help melting into him. And that can’t be comfortable--the shock of Tony’s cold skin against Steve’s, especially so soon after waking--but Steve just pulls him closer, one hand cradling the back of Tony’s neck, mouths moving comfortably together like they’re having a conversation. Saying good morning. 

 

“Hey,” Bucky says indignantly. “What am I, chopped liver? I didn’t get _any_ of that.”

 

Steve smiles enough to separate their lips, then nudges Tony toward Bucky. “I think you oughta take care of that, Tones. He hates kissing me before I’ve brushed my teeth.”

 

“Yeah, cause it’s _gross_ ,” Bucky says. But he doesn’t protest when Tony steps up to deliver Steve’s morning breath second-hand, doesn’t protest when Tony knots his hands in his t-shirt like he’s been wanting to do all morning. He just tucks an errant strand of Tony’s hair back into place, leans in close enough that their noses are touching, and murmurs, _we’re gonna take good care of you, Tones_. And before Tony has a chance to let that terrify him, Bucky’s kissing him. He’s deliberate, thorough, like this is an end in itself--just kissing.

 

Steve never does get around to brushing his teeth. Bucky whines the whole time, but Tony doesn’t mind.

 

888

 

CENTCOM loses contact with Rhodey’s unit. Tony’s got a flight booked to Kabul and is halfway to Boston Airport before Natasha finds him, pulls him out of his cab and into standstill traffic, and says she’ll let him go if he tells her his plan. He can’t, doesn’t have one. They walk back to 3219 together, and Tony spends the next sixteen hours sitting by the phone, not eating, not sleeping, not talking. All four of them skip class to sit with him. 

 

(Rhodey’s okay.)

 

888

 

Tony’s only ever had sex with one man--well, now _three_ men--but he’s a fast learner.

 

He sits out a few rounds and just _watches_. He doesn’t take notes or anything, but he’s paying attention. They’ve been sleeping together since they were fifteen, and they know each other’s bodies as well as they know their own. It’s like watching an engine turn over, watching lines of code talk to each other exactly the way they’re supposed to, watching the familiar way two people who’ve been married for three decades greet each other with a hello kiss, in the movies. Tony sits cross-legged on one side of the bed while on the other, Bucky trails sticky kisses down Steve’s chest, slips a hand in Steve’s tighty-whities and _squeezes_. Steve lets out a moan, low and involuntary, and Tony hears doors opening and closing, feet on the stairs as Nat and Sam flee to the porch. Bucky returns to Steve’s mouth, elbow braced on the mattress next to his head, and Steve shoves his boxers down, giving Tony a nice view of Bucky’s pale butt. It’s not even that nice of a butt, but it’s on Bucky, and Tony feels his dick swell three sizes.

 

They come almost at the same time, just rutting against each other, and it’s like a punch to the gut--the stutter in Bucky’s hips as he bites out _FUCK, Stevie_ , the way Steve’s feet tense and jolt against the sheets like he’s not in control of his own muscles, the plain, visceral sight of white cum smeared between them, then smeared on Bucky’s t-shirt, cast onto the floor. Tony can’t help the sound he makes, a sharp huff of air like someone just kicked him in the ribs. Steve’s eyes find him over Bucky’s shoulder--his hair’s stuck up in a million different directions and he’s breathing like he just ran a marathon, but his eyes are bright blue. He murmurs something to Bucky and the other man rolls off him in a lazy lump, turns to watch with hooded eyes.

 

Being pressed down into the mattress by a naked Steve is almost enough to make Tony cum in his pants. He’s glad he doesn’t, though, because this way he gets to wrap his arms around Steve’s back, gets to laugh while Steve stares into his eyes and presses a kiss to his chin at the same time, feel the smile fall off his lips when Steve moves lower, rucking up Tony’s t-shirt to sink his hands into Tony’s sides, fingers still slightly sticky with Bucky’s cum. Gets to suck in a tight breath when he feels Steve’s mouth on him through his boxers, hear Bucky murmur, _hold ‘im down, Stevie_ , feel Steve obey. Gets warm breath on his dick, heavy weight on top of him, and then Steve’s tongue, his lips, the rumble of his mouth as he hums around the head of Tony’s cock, like he’s content to be there. Happy to be there. Tony throws his head back into the pillows, and it’s the scent of both of them--of sweat and unwashed bodies and countless nights tangled together--that pushes him over the edge.

 

888

 

“Okay,” Steve says. “The fifth annual 3219 holiday negotiation is now underway. Your offers?” 

 

Sam and Bucky stare each other down from opposite sides of the kitchen table. They’re both sitting straighter than Tony’s ever seen them, stiff-backed. He feels like maybe they should be wearing suits for this, but they’re still in jeans and sweatshirts, fresh home from class. Tony has no idea what’s going on. He wasn’t briefed, just instructed to be in attendance. Now he’s sitting next to Natasha on the counter, beer in-hand, observing.

 

“My offer,” Sam says. “My grandma wants Steve. If she does not get Steve, none of us will see a single crumb of pecan pie for the next year, at least.”

 

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “How does the potential pecan pie embargo affect _me_?”

 

“I propose a Christmas-sharing initiative. Christmas Eve in D.C. Drive overnight to beat the traffic. Christmas morning in New York. You will be included in this. You will be able to smell the pecan pie, but if grandma doesn’t get Steve for Thanksgiving, you will not be allowed to taste it.”

 

This, Tony thinks, is the closest he’s ever going to come to seeing aliens interact. Honestly, what the fuck. He opens his mouth to ask Natasha _what the fuck_ , but she waves him quiet, watching intently. Bucky takes another long moment to chew over Sam’s proposal. “Suppose I were to accept the terms of this ‘Christmas-sharing initiative,’” he says. “I would need some guarantees first.”

 

Sam gives a _go on_ gesture, like this makes perfect sense. “Name your price, Barnes.”

 

“I get Nat and Tony for Thanksgiving, and reserve Steve and Tony for the next three New Years.” He pauses to let Sam protest, and when he doesn’t, continues, “I get Nat for Easter. And you take Steve on St. Patrick’s Day.”

 

“Oh, _come on,_ Barnes!” Sam rises up out of his chair. “Fucking _St. Patrick’s Day--“_

 

Steve slaps the table. “Order in the kitchen,” he growls, in a voice that goes straight to Tony’s dick. “Do I have to remind you of the holiday negotiation bylaws? Sit the fuck back down, Sam.”

 

Sam sits back down, still fuming. Bucky fixes him with a smug smirk, leaning back in his chair. “I guess it all comes down to how bad you want that pecan pie, Wilson.”

 

In the end, they agree on the Christmas-sharing initiative, joint custody of Steve on St. Patrick’s Day, and Nat going to Brooklyn for Easter for the next two years. Apparently Bucky’s sisters love it when Natasha does their hair. Tony’s still not a hundred percent clear on all the concessions, but what it comes down to is this: They think he’s still going to be around in three years. They want him still around in three years. It’s...well.

 

He spends Thanksgiving at the Barnes’ apartment in Brooklyn. It’s cosy, and warm, and Bucky’s little sisters give him a lot of shit for the whole, quote, _rolling up drunk to a stranger’s apartment_ _thing_ he pulled last year, but after that they treat him the same way as Natasha--like he’s welcome, just another one of Bucky’s friends. 

 

They do that cheesy “go around the table and say what you’re thankful for” thing that families do on TV. Tony says, honestly, that he’s grateful for his friends, for the Afghan peace initiative, for their hospitality. Mrs. Barnes decides to embarrass Tony by saying she’s thankful for the Maria Stark Foundation, for everything his fundraising efforts have done for her clinic. Tony blushes and looks down at his lap, feels Bucky’s eyes on him.

 

(After dinner, full and sleepy in Bucky’s childhood bed, Tony says, “Sorry I didn’t tell you. I just--I started it before I knew who you were, and I--“ Bucky cuts him off with a long kiss, just lips pressing together, and murmurs _thank you. thank you. thank you._ They don’t get up to anything, not with Nat and Bucky’s sisters giggling in the next room, but Tony falls asleep bundled in one of Bucky’s sweatshirts, wrapped in Bucky’s arms.)

 

888

 

Obie insists Tony accompany him to the Monaco Grand Prix. _For old time’s sake_ , he insists, but Tony knows it’s for PR. Looks good to have the heir apparent at your side while you schmooze. They give a joint interview to _Vanity Fair_ , a sharp blonde reporter who asks, “What’s next for Stark Industries?” Tony only manages to say _not weapons_ before Obie’s dragging him away by the sleeve of his thousand-dollar tux, smiling and laughing to cover up like it’s a joke. Tony’s pretty sure the _Vanity Fair_ reporter is too smart to fall for that, so he does his best to keep sending her significant looks from his timeout at the bar, but Obie catches him at it and steps smoothly in between them. Oh, well. There are a lot of other ways to have fun at a billion-dollar party, even the black tie kind, but it doesn’t take Tony long to realize that perky boob jobs and fruity perfumes just aren’t doing it for him anymore.

 

There aren’t a lot of cheap hole-in-the-wall pizza places in Monaco (there aren’t _any_ ), so they take the helicopter across the border into Italy and buy out the first pizzeria they come across. Obie talks about Stark Pad sales and the re-negotiation of their Army contract; Tony talks about Poetry for Engineers and the undergrad Phys Ed requirement he didn’t even realize he needed until last week. It’s been six months since Tony brought it up the first time, but still, it shouldn’t take him by surprise when Obie brings up the arc reactor. It does.

 

Dinner ends in an argument that would be a shouting match if it weren’t for the pizzeria owner with her cell phone out and Obie’s over-obsession with appearances. Tony takes the helicopter straight to the airport in Nice and gets on a plane back to Boston, so mad his muscles don’t unclench until he’s halfway across the Atlantic.

 

888

 

Stress and Tony are old friends. 

 

He lives in that moment when you either have to keep working or die trying. He’s been addicted to caffeine since he was twelve. He lives on DUM-E’s smoothies so often that his whole digestive system gets confused when he shifts over to eating normal food. He’s used to waking up feeling ill, used to knowing no one cares how he feels, used to working through it even when all he wants to do is lay in bed. 

 

What he’s _not_ used to is that moment when you get home. That moment when you come in the door and say _honey_ \--and before you can get to the rest of it, they’re there, tired eyes and warm smiles and the smell of food cooking in the kitchen, just as happy to see you as you are to see them. That moment when you take a load off, when suddenly nothing matters except the insular safety of your family around you, when everything else--all the stress, all the work, all the necessary achievement--can wait until tomorrow.

 

(Relief. He’s not used to relief.)

 

888

 

When he steps off the plane in Boston in the middle of the night, it’s the thought of having to imagine their arms instead of actually _feeling_ them, the thought of his cold, rectangular bed, that makes him give the cabby the address to 3219. The house is dark--of course it is, it’s four in the morning--but Tony knocks anyway.

 

He’s on the porch for a long time. The cabby drives away, which means if no one gets up to answer, Tony’s probably just going to kip out in one of the lawn chairs. But then he knocks again, and he hears locks unclicking inside, the first door opening. The second door swings in, and Steve’s standing in front of him, a baseball bat in one hand. He blinks, puts the baseball bat down, rubs his eyes. “Tony? What...?”

 

Tony doesn’t know what to say. _Sorry_ doesn’t feel right, and neither does _I was in the neighborhood_. So he just stands there, feeling miserable and probably looking miserable, until Steve drags him inside.

 

They don’t talk much. They don’t really need to. It’s miraculous--it’s a goddamn _miracle_ , the way Steve knows what Tony needs without having to hear it. Tony’s brief moment of hesitation outside the second floor bathroom is enough for Steve to murmur, “Yeah, you smell like airport.” The way Tony stumbles over the rug is enough for Steve to crowd in there with him, barely enough space for them both in the bathroom itself, let alone the shower. The fine tremor in Tony’s hands is enough for Steve to take the washcloth from him, enough for Steve to scrub shampoo into his hair, brisk and perfunctory, the same way he shampoos himself. 

 

He manhandles Tony to turn around so he can tilt his head back and rinse off, then stills as Tony draws in a thick, wet breath. “Tones?” Steve asks, softly. “Are you...are you crying?”

 

Tony’s face is already wet. His chest feels tight, but his chest has felt tight since he stormed out of that pizzeria in Italy. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t--“ he chokes off, a sob stuck in his throat. 

 

Steve pulls him in. Not that there’s far to go, but Tony is thankful, thankful for his hands and his arms and the warmth of his wet skin, how Steve pulls him close enough that Tony can just bury his face in the crook of Steve’s neck and let it all come up in big, ugly-feeling sobs, the Stark family legacy and his last words to his mom and the arc reactor and his fight with Obie and the empty feeling he always gets from travelling and the sick, ever-present fear that tomorrow Steve and Bucky are going to decide Tony’s “experimental phase” has gone on long enough. The water starts to go cold, but Steve doesn’t move.

 

Eventually, Tony’s eyes start to sting. He rubs them against Steve’s shoulder, and Steve says, “Yeah, you’re getting shampoo in your eyes, dumbass.” 

 

He helps Tony rinse off--tears and all. Tony’s stomach clenches at the idea of putting his airport clothes back on, but Steve just puts on his boxers and guides Tony into his t-shirt and sweatpants, still warm from bed. He tugs the drawstring on the pants to tighten them around Tony’s thin waist and flashes Tony one of those sheepish smiles that says _haha, I’m bigger than you_ \--and Tony can’t help but pull him into a kiss, just in case tomorrow really is the day. Steve kisses back, lets Tony back him into the counter for a long minute of just...sharing space.

 

Bucky doesn’t wake when they climb into bed. But when Steve nudges Tony into the middle, he rolls over and draws Tony into his side, mumbling nonsense. Tony sinks down so he’s almost all the way under the covers, surrounded by them, buries his face in Bucky’s side, and drifts to sleep.

 

888

 

He was five the first time Howard said _Get out._ Maria was away on vacation with her sister, not available to mediate. Tony brought his R2-D2 blankets out to the garage and slept in the backseat of the Camaro, snuck into the house while Howard was at work during the day to grab food. He was there for three days before Happy found him, and he spent the next week after that--until Maria got home--in a pillow fort in Happy’s living room.

 

888

 

“I don’t even remember the night we met,” Tony says. “You can’t want someone like that.”

 

Neither Steve nor Bucky looks impressed by that argument. They just continue to quietly sip their morning coffees, sharing a newspaper, while Tony has a meltdown on the other side of the table. “I--I’m a mess,” Tony continues, determined to dissuade them. “One time I went seven days without seeing the sun. I used to lie to girls about my age so they’d sleep with me. I corrected my dad’s math on the Jericho missile. When I was fifteen I got arrested for peeing in the Trevi Fountain. I hacked Stanford’s admissions system to get my friend Pepper a full scholarship. At my second grade science fair I tried to teleport a cat and definitely probably killed it. I...I leave clothes all over the place. I come with two non-negotiable robots and nightmares and like six metric tons of daddy issues. I--I drink too much and I’m shit at telling people how I really feel, and I’m going to ruin you two. I’m gonna fuck it up.”

 

Cool as a cucumber, Bucky folds up the sports section, sets it down, and takes off his reading glasses. He’s so still that, momentarily, Tony’s reminded of Howard. Of _Get out._ But instead, Bucky just says the same thing that Steve said five minutes ago, to kickstart Tony’s whole rant: “Move in with us.”

 

(Tony is a weak, weak-willed man. The question practically answers itself.)

 

888

 

3219 throws a party to celebrate their newest housemate. 

 

Tony moved DUM-E to his graduate lab, but Butterfingers is having great fun dropping things all over the kitchen. Sam gave up trying to card people thirty minutes ago and is now holding some sort of psychology pow-wow in the back yard with a bong and a bunch of girls who are holding each other and crying. Natasha disappeared inside her room with Val--the girl from the Halloween party--a while ago, and Bruce is pouting in the corner. Tony resists the urge to go over there and say _I told you so_ , since he’s been urging Bruce to make a move for months--it’s not that he thinks gloating’s suddenly below him, or anything, just that watching Steve do body shots off Peggy Carter’s ample bosom while Peggy makes out with her girlfriend Angie is a lot more interesting. 

 

Tony’s _happy_. He doesn’t think he stops smiling the whole night--a point that’s confirmed when Bucky sidles up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist and presses his lips close to his ear to murmur _love that look on your face, baby._ It thrills Tony-- _thrills_ him, that he can turn around in Bucky’s arms and draw him into a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss and have it not be about _experimenting_ , have it be real. Bucky presses him back into a dark corner of the living room, away from (most) prying eyes, slides his knee between Tony’s legs and makes a soft noise of encouragement when Tony grinds down against him. Every couple of heartbeats, Bucky moves to whisper something in Tony’s ear--a strange mix of _wanna watch Steve fuck you_ and _love waking up with you, Tones._ Tony’s mind goes blank, nothing but the buzz of alcohol in his bloodstream and the pressure of Bucky’s thigh against his groin and the low, hot sound of his voice in his ear. 

 

(Tony cums in his jeans like a fucking fourteen-year-old, but luckily the only person who notices him sneaking upstairs to change his pants is Angie, and she just tosses him a saucy wink.)

 

When Sam’s chased the last freshman out of the basement and they’re done re-installing the duct tape seals, the three of them fall into bed together. Steve’s tongue tastes like lime and salt, and Bucky reclines lazily against the pillows, cock half-hard in his hand, and watches while Steve fucks Tony open, first with his fingers and then with his dick. It’s the first time since Tony’s first ill-fated gay experiment that he’s been fucked, and _god_ is it different, gentle and deep and _thorough_ , Bucky never shutting up, telling them how good they look, how much he _loves them_. Tony knows it’s just something people say, when they’re fucking-- _fuck, love you--_ but it still makes him come, one leg hitched around Steve’s waist and one just complete jello, vision white as Steve follows him down.

 

Bucky straddles Steve and jacks himself off on his stomach. Steve huffs a fond laugh, looks at Tony and says, “He thinks morning breath is gross but _coming all over me_ is hot--“

 

They fall asleep in a pile at the middle of that big, circular bed. The attic around them is in flux, one desk shoved out crooked to accomodate Tony’s boxes, closet all but turned over, looking for spare space that just isn’t there. Tony’s going to have to build in some extra shelving, but that’s a problem for the morning. It can wait. For once, with Steve’s head on his stomach and Bucky’s arm flung across his chest, _tomorrow_ doesn’t seem so scary.

 

(That’s a dumb thought. It’s dumb of him to let his guard down. But he’s young and in love and the fact that he’s still secretly paying rent on his own apartment doesn’t seem so earth-shattering. Neither does the fact that it’s below freezing outside and he forgot to leave his taps dripping. Dumb.)

 

888

 

A week later, Tony wakes up in the middle of the night to what he thinks is his ringtone.

 

Bucky rolls over and answers it, so Tony lets himself start to drift off to sleep. But Bucky’s shaking him awake a moment later. “Tones, you gotta straighten this guy out. Says he’s your landlord.”

 

Tony takes the phone without really registering the words. “Hello?” 

 

The guy on the other end of the line is, indeed, his landlord. Apparently there’s a burst pipe in Tony’s apartment, and Tony better get over there ASAP for the things he wants to save from water damage. Tony mumbles that he’ll get around to it in the morning--DUM-E’s in the lab, Butterfingers is in the kitchen downstairs, and all his boxes are here. (The only thing left in the apartment is his safe. It’s waterproof, so he doesn’t bother telling his landlord about it.) He hangs up the phone with every intention of going right back to sleep, but Bucky’s staring at him, wide awake, looking like he just tasted something spoiled. “What?” Tony murmurs.

 

“Why do you still have your old apartment?” Bucky asks, not bothering to temper his volume. Tony feels Steve start to stir behind him, and his heart drops into his stomach like a brick. “ _Tony.”_

 

Steve’s hand flops against Tony’s back. “Buck?” he slurs, still half-asleep. “Tones? Whassup?”

 

The ensuing argument probably wakes half of Boston. Tony tries every excuse he can come up with-- _forgot to break the lease, automatic rent payments, couldn’t find a sublet--_ but eventually they start to contradict each other and Bucky’s got a bullshit detector to rival NASA. Steve mostly just hangs in the stairway and listens, looking grim and resigned as Tony and Bucky yell at each other in the kitchen. Wisely, Nat and Sam stay in their rooms. Tony wishes he’d had the foresight to say _wrong number_ and hang up, but now it’s this.

 

Now it’s Bucky looking hurt and betrayed and Steve not even saying anything, both of them against him at two fucking a.m, and Tony doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore, doesn’t even know why he’s yelling anymore when all he wants to do is go back upstairs and get back into bed and ignore the fact that when the sun rises tomorrow morning, this won’t be his home anymore. He won’t be welcome here anymore. 

 

“The _truth,_ Tony!” Bucky shouts, finally, hoarse with it. “Don’t fucking lie to me-- _why do you have it?”_

 

Tony doesn’t even _know_ the truth until it comes out of his mouth. “Because! Because, Buck, I don’t belong here! You and Steve have a whole fucking _life_ together, and I’m just--some experiment! Sometime--sometime _soon_ \--you’re gonna realize you don’t need me--don’t need me here, and when you kick me out, I gotta have somewhere to put my life back together.” 

 

By the end of it, he’s not even yelling. His voice isn’t even raised. It’s just broken, ragged. He’s got nothing left. “I--I’ll get rid if it, if you just let me stay. Please. I...can we just go back to bed?”

 

“How can you not trust us?” Bucky asks. Tony has no idea where he got that, but watching him say it--like it _hurts_ him, like Tony is capable of hurting him, here in the sanctum sanctorum. Like Tony not trusting him _matters_ , when he’s always gonna have Steve. Watching him is just--Tony wants it to stop, _please_. “You think we’re gonna kick you out, Tones? Just like that? If you think so little of us, how can we trust _you?”_

 

Tony wants to go back. He doesn’t know how to fix this, he just wants to go back to fucking-- _god_ , fifteen minutes ago, when the most important problem in his life was the way the hallways in his dream kept folding in on each other. But he doesn’t know how to get there. He can’t find his way. “Bucky--“ 

 

“Get out,” Steve says. 

 

It’s the first thing he’s said since they woke up. Two words, and they’re the worst possible ones he could’ve picked. _Fuck you,_ Tony could’ve worked with. _Hate you, it’s over, go die._ They don’t leave a lot of room for argument, but Tony’s never needed a lot of room. _Get out,_ though...Get out. He’s heard those words before.

 

And suddenly, Tony can’t think of a single thing to say.

 

888

 

The _first_ first time Tony meets Steve, he wakes up safe and sound in the Barnes’ apartment because Steve cares enough about a total stranger to make sure he’s got a place to rest his head. A year and a half later, after the happiest week of his life, Tony walks a mile and a half in the snow in his pajamas and a pair of Sam’s boots because Steve made him leave before he could grab his phone to call a cab.

 

888

 

It’s got to be the worst night of his life. It had _better_ be--Tony doesn’t want to see what _worse_ looks like.

 

He forgets about the burst pipe until he steps through the door into his empty apartment and finds himself ankle-deep in water. Luckily enough, he decided to leave Sam’s boots outside in the hall so he wouldn’t track snow in, so now he’s got wet, ice-cold socks. He can hear running water somewhere, which means whatever temporary fix the landlord tried didn’t hold, which means Tony has work to do before he can collapse in a self-pitying heap on his rectangular bed. He goes back in the hall and puts Sam’s boots on (sorry, Sam), then wades his way into the kitchen where the burst pipe is. The landlord’s tools are still on the counter--the first break Tony’s gotten all night--so he grabs a wrench and sets about trying to redirect water flow through the pipes that _aren’t_ burst, since he doesn’t exactly have a soldering iron on-hand. His soldering stuff is in one of the boxes in 3219’s attic, and he tries no to think about it too hard while he gets freezing water all over his already-freezing body.

 

It’s pushing five a.m, still black out in the dead of winter, when Tony finally wrangles the pipes into place. It’s not his best work, but he’s shivering so much he keeps clanging the wrench against things, disassociating so hard he’s surprised he still remembers the grade-school basics of fluid mechanics. He puts the wrench down on the counter with the noble intention of trying to catch a few hours of shut-eye, but his legs give out and he ends up sitting down hard in three inches of water. A ripple runs through the kitchen. Tony closes his eyes.

 

There’s someone at the door. They don’t bother to knock--just start scrabbling at the lock. Tony opens his eyes slightly, long enough to decide for himself that it’s the landlord coming back to check on the place, and calls out, “You can go back to bed, Phil, I got it handled!” No reply. Tony hears the front door open. Someone starts wading inside. A jolt of alarm shoots through Tony’s chest, and he pulls himself to his feet, grabs the wrench off the counter. It’s not much by way of protection, but all his knives are--well, you know. 

 

When he sees Obie, he almost relaxes enough to put the wrench down. _Almost_. 

 

Then he notices the orange ear plugs. And the unfamiliar device in Obie’s hand. And the grim look on his face, like he regrets what he’s about to do. “Obie--“ Tony starts. 

 

Obie presses a button. Tony doesn’t even hear the sound, but he feels it--feels it in his _veins_ , in the way his blood starts to revolt against his capillaries, vibrating supersonic. He didn’t even know that anything _could_ feel like this, that he could feel every tiny offshoot of his circulatory system in such _excruciating_ detail, but--everything is white, and everything hurts, and then it stops. Then everything is empty--his own skull feels empty. He’s laying down sideways in the water, but he doesn’t remember falling. Obie turns him onto his back, so he can get down in close in Tony’s face. Tony thought he was better than Howard, but right now, he misses his dad.

 

“The arc reactor, Tony,” Obie says. And Tony guesses it’s probably his fault for jinxing it.

 

888

 

Laying on the floor with Obie standing over him, Tony feels small. He feels--somehow, under all the pain-- _embarrassment,_ like he’s five and Happy’s finding him curled up in the back seat of the Camaro, like he’s fourteen and Rhodey’s carrying him bodily out of a Harvard frat party. Cold, dirty water laps against the side of his face, almost touching his open eye, and Tony wonders how he ever thought he was anything but this: pathetic, and alone, and hung out to dry. 

 

888

 

Someone’s crying. It’s not Tony, even though his face is wet. 

 

He’s not really...aware. His limbs still don’t seem to want to talk to his brain, which is okay, because he’s pretty sure if they did they’d be screaming some very fucking unpleasant expletives. His whole body is shaking--he knows that, because he can feel it in his heartbeat, which is in his throat--deep, helpless shudders. 

 

There’s pressure on the side of his face, but he’s numb so he doesn’t know what it is. Maybe Obie’s foot again, he thinks, until the hand turns his head and someone manhandles him into a lap, and it’s Steve, isn’t it? Of course it is.  Tony manages to convince his neck to move _just_ enough to bury his face in the Steve’s stomach, in the big pouch pocket of his sweatshirt. He can’t feel it, can’t feel the warmth, but he can smell it. 

 

Steve calls out to someone. The water moves around them, and then there are more hands on him, and low, frantic voices, and Tony thinks that must be Bucky. Who else would it be? Who else would bother sounding that worried about _Tony_ , of all people? And Tony wants to reach out, grab onto both of them, but, you know. Paralyzed. 

 

 _We’re gonna take good care of you, Tones,_ he hears, like someone’s murmuring it softly to someone they love at the bottom of a very deep well, a well-loved, well-lived-in refrain.

 

And he lets himself drift back out of awareness. 

 

888

 

Tony doesn’t so much _wake up_ as he emerges from stasis. 

 

The _first_ first thing he realizes is that he’s not alone. There are people breathing near him, arms around him, warm bodies next to his. The _second_ first thing he realizes is that he still can’t move his limbs, but it becomes apparent pretty quickly that it’s because he’s swaddled tight in a quilt. While his mind struggles to catch up with reality, he finds himself lost in it--it’s made up of different t-shirts, little league teams and boxing gyms and the Giants and the Mets, Steve’s favorite brewing companies and Bucky’s mom’s clinic and their high school. It takes Tony longer than he’s proud of to realize that this is _the_ quilt. The quilt Bucky sewed. Not even Steve was sure this quilt really existed, and now here it is. Wrapped around Tony. 

 

“Tones?” comes Steve’s voice, soft. 

 

It takes some maneuvering, but Tony manages to free his arms enough to push up onto his elbows as Steve blinks awake beside him. It’s a shock how _bad_ Steve looks, drawn and haggard, five o’clock shadow more _unwashed_ than _rugged_. He looks like Tony after an all-nighter, after he passes out from sheer exhaustion and wakes up with his face plastered to DUM-E’s tread and no idea what day it is. He looks, for lack of a better word, _wrecked_. 

 

“Hey,” Tony says, cautious. Testing. He hasn’t forgotten the look in Steve’s eyes when he said _Get out_. “Good morning. Or is it afternoon? Sorry, my internal clock’s a little scrambled--“

 

“ _Tony,”_ Steve cuts him off. “God, shut up.” Tony would be offended, except how Steve’s kissing him. He hums and sinks into it, and kissing Steve on the regular is a life-altering experience, but kissing Steve when he never thought he’d get the chance again is just--euphoric. Tony twists his way out of the quilt to get closer, sinks his hand in Steve’s hair and wraps an arm around his shoulders. It’s only a moment before Steve’s pulling away--Tony doesn’t let him get far, but Steve’s intent on it, on getting enough space to say, “God, Tony, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it, I was just--we were both angry, and it was late, and--“

 

“What he’s trying to say is we were wrong, baby.” Bucky curls onto his side behind Tony, awake enough that Tony’s willing to bet he was never really asleep. “Yellin’ was the wrong thing to do. We shoulda just waited ‘till morning to talk it out. And Stevie _definitely_ shouldn’a kicked you outta your own damn house.” 

 

The last is said as a clear admonition, and Steve hears it. He ducks his head, which brings his and Tony’s foreheads together, and says, “Sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking, Tony, I just--sometimes I get worked up and say things I dont mean, and-- _God_ , please don’t leave. Don’t go. I’ll learn to do better.”

 

Tony’s never done this before. He’s never been in a relationship, never found people who wanted to keep him as badly as he wanted to keep them. But he’d have to be an idiot not to see that Steve and Bucky want him here--want him in their weird circular bed in their attic room, in their _lives_. And yeah, he has no fucking idea what he’s doing, but he’s a quick learner. “I’m sorry, too,” he says. “I shouldn’t have hidden the apartment. I just...my dad always taught me not to keep all my eggs in one basket.” A half-truth, but a truth. It’s good enough, for now.

 

“Yeah, well,” Bucky says, “your dad never met me and Stevie. We’re a damn sturdy basket.”

 

Tony can’t help the sputtering laugh. Bucky tries to climb over into the middle of them and ends up straddling both of them. It’s not graceful, but Tony’s never cared less in his life. Bucky ducks down to kiss him, and it feels like a reminder-- _hello, here I am, you’ve got me_. Tony reaches out for Steve, but Steve’s already reaching out for him, and they meet in the middle, Tony’s hand sliding under Steve’s back at the same time that Steve’s arm worms around Tony’s waist. Bucky grinds down against him and Tony gasps and Steve’s arm moves heavy with his ribcage, and it’s overwhelming. Everywhere Tony turns, everyhwere he moves, there are arms, shoulders, blue eyes and rumpled t-shirts and close, warm morning breath. 

 

(Will he forgive them? Tony is a weak, weak-willed man. The question practically answers itself.)

 

888

 

The Obie story comes out over breakfast. Butterfingers spills Tony’s coffee three times before Tony gives up and just carries it to the kitchen table himself. Really, he should’ve stopped him sooner, but with all the mugs Tony brought in the move, they’re running out of cabinet space, and it’s easier to let the bot break a few then choose which ones to part with. Nat and Sam have long since vacated the house, wise as they are, which means that when Bucky whips up a batch of his mom’s Belgian waffles, they’re free to stuff themselves. Tony gets through three--slathered in syrup--before he manages to get out, “So, uh, I think I was tortured last night?” Bucky drops his fork. Steve gapes, a bead of syrup dripping from his lip. “I--well,” Tony continues. “I’m not really sure. It might’ve just been assault--it was at least assault, but, I mean--he was trying to get me to open my safe, so. I don’t know.”

 

Bucky insists on calling his mom, and then calling Bruce, who comes over just to tiredly remind them that he’s not _that_ kind of doctoral candidate. Steve dials his friend Sharon from the FBI. Sharon has a SWAT team outside Obie’s penthouse in New York after fifteen minutes, has Obie in federal custody after a half hour, and has the arc reactor in transit back to Boston before Tony’s finished sweeping shards of ceramic up off the floor. Tony’s been looking a lot of gift horses straight in the mouth, lately--but he lets this one go.

 

Tomorrow, he’ll have to deal with the fact that SI is his, now. He’ll have to deal with official statements and court appearances, PR and press conferences and paparazzi outside 3219. He’ll have to clean house, break his military contracts, figure out how to make enough money off clean energy to keep the company afloat. He’ll have to juggle a million different things at once, have to lean hard on that caffeine addiction to get over the hump of a new breed of nightmares, have to figure out how to bend reality to his will. 

 

But right now, it’s okay. Right now he’s at the kitchen table splitting a newspaper three ways with the only two people he’s ever loved while Butterfingers bumps into his chair and the front doors open to the tune of Sam’s _Don’t tell me you bitches ate all the waffles_. Right now, Tony’s home.

 

And all that stress, all that work, all that necessary achievement--it can wait.

 


End file.
